Thinking
by createadisaster
Summary: Sirius can't stop thinking and Remus can't stop looking. Language.


Remus does not sit the way most people do. He doesn't lean back or cross his legs or rest his feet on the ground. He doesn't sit up straight, and he doesn't lounge about, and he doesn't put his legs up on the coffee table. In fact, he doesn't really do anything that most people do when they sit down.

Sirius can't quite explain why he's so fascinated by that. Then again, Sirius is fascinated by nearly everything Remus does, and he can't really explain any of it. James would explain that he's clearly just touched in the head and Peter's explanation would involve toast and Sirius would tune him out, and Remus would just grin in that way he had that meant he had a secret, ha ha ha, and he wasn't going to share it, and then Sirius would throw a pillow at him and forget what he'd asked.

But after that, of course, Remus would sit down again and Sirius would look and watch and wonder what exactly it was that made him arrange himself the way that he did. Sirius, personally, was a sprawler- if there was space, he would take up all of it. He'd toss one leg over the arm of his chair and the other hanging off the back with his head on a table and his arms all over the place with everyone looking and thinking that that couldn't possibly be comfortable. He'd kick back and relax and just _sprawl_, just drape himself over whatever sort of furniture happened to be there and be perfectly happy with himself.

Remus, on the other hand, had this way of folding himself up into far smaller of a space than was reasonable. Remus seemed to have too many limbs sometimes, these long gangly things that he just didn't always know what to do with, so he packed them up into a little box. He brought his knees up to his chest and pulled his arms in close to his torso and ducked his head down like he was preparing for some sort of weather-related disaster, and Sirius just watched, fascinated, as this boy who was really far too big for these spaces he put him into tucked himself into a chair that Sirius had eschewed for being far too cramped.

He was a tall boy- man, now, Sirius supposed, though he felt that the two of them spent far too much time engaged in varying degrees of tomfoolery to really consider themselves as grown up just yet. Wizarding law told them three years prior that they were adults, and, like the chair, Sirius dismissed that with ease. Being an adult sounded like work, whereas this wasn't work at all. His life was this little flat that he and Remus shared, and income coming in from Remus working at a bookshop while Sirius stayed at home and played in the kitchen, "like a good little housewife," Remus would tease, except Sirius would, of course, remind him that he sold his baked goods to that café down the block, thank you, and maybe one day they could open up their own, and Remus could manage the numbers and probably get shelves and books to put on them, too, and then Sirius could make delicious food and people would buy it and he was _not _a housewife because housewives have husbands who come home and pretend to love them and then fuck them, and that obviously wasn't them because Remus _did _love him and _didn't _fuck him, so there.

And Remus would laugh, like he always did, and then sit down on one of the straight backed chairs they kept at their table, and he would pull his legs up and rest his heels on the edge of the chair and manage to balance himself on this space that was really just _too small for him, why was he doing that, he was going to fall off one of these days_, and he would look at Sirius and smile, and concede in that lazy drawl that Sirius loved best, "I suppose you're right." And then they would look at each other the way they always did and wonder why they _weren't _fucking, because they did love each other and they knew it and everyone else knew it and Sirius would look away first just like he always did.

And then Remus would stand and nab a biscuit off the rack where they were cooling and he'd pop it in his mouth and walk into a different room, loosening his tie and pulling his jumper over his head and Sirius would watch him go and tell himself that next time, he'll kiss him. Tomorrow, he'll kiss him. And then tomorrow, he will tell himself that he will kiss him, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that, and one day Remus will tire of waiting and kiss him himself.

Sirius holds onto that thought when he watches Remus pack himself into these little chairs that really he has no business sitting down in. He thinks of that as he watches Remus curl up on the couch, taking up maybe a cushion and a half total when really he could spread out across the whole thing and still have some space left. He thinks of how maybe one day, one of them will be brave enough to kiss the other, to stop dancing around each other the way they have been since they were children, practically. He thinks of the way his Moony smiles at him when he thinks he's not looking, and he thinks of the way he closes his eyes and bites his lip when he's thinking hard, or how he tilts his head back sometimes and Sirius doesn't see the two long, jagged lines that claws once left, he just sees a throat that he's fucking desperate to touch and he thinks of all the things he might never be brave enough to say.

He's so busy thinking that one day, maybe he'll have the courage to just do it, that he misses Remus standing, and crossing the room, and he jerks back into reality when there are strong, warm hands on him, one on his upper arm and the other cupping his neck, careful careful, and then there are lips on his and he stops thinking of much of anything.


End file.
